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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830288">you wake up with a hatchet over your head.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhorrorgay/pseuds/softhorrorgay'>softhorrorgay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia, Predator/Prey, Red Riding Hood Elements, Sexual Content, Smut, Stalking, cannibalistic themes, dubcon, if you're clicking on this you know what you're here for, look there's just gonna be some real gross stuff in here, necro adjacent content, no beta we die like men, noncon, some weird dreamscape/limbo shenanigans, uhhh let's see, unnamed oc death, unreality</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:20:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhorrorgay/pseuds/softhorrorgay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>i'm just really gay for red riding hood aus and now you all have to suffer for it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lawrence/Strade (Boyfriend to Death)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lawrence doesn’t like bars. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not the fault of the bars themselves. Not really. Lawrence doesn’t really like...anywhere. His apartment, at least, could be tolerated. He was alone there. He could look out the big windows — natural light, good for the plants — and </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> without being </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And that’s good. That’s how he prefers it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Being seen is...always a </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he doesn’t like stores, doesn’t like hallways, elevators, apartments, buildings, cities. And he doesn’t like bars. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But working at night, there are only a few places open when he slips away for his...lunch. They insist he take a break. Something about the laws. He wishes they would just leave him alone, stop talking to him, so he can go through the motions on loop, a cycle of moving hands and fitting things together and if he lets his eyes unfocus, stares just past the moving conveyor belt, he can almost imagine…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always liked pulling things apart. Not because he likes to break them — that’s not the point. That’s an...unfortunate side-effect. He likes pulling them apart, because how else can he know them? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span> know them? There’s all this...outside. The shell that keeps everything in, and keeps </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s tired of being shut out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So the work isn’t bad, but the interruptions </span>
  <em>
    <span>are,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because when his eyes focus again, there are always just...the parts. Unliving, unfeeling, unthinking, un...anything. And then he’s always pretty eager to leave, even if it means the coming back, because the night air is cool and the street lamps only stretch so far, and usually it can be him and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the sound of the small things rustling in the fallen leaves at night. Restless. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hungry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hungry</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s why he’s here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing else is open. Even this place is winding down, the patrons that are left too far into their glasses to really notice one newcomer at the end of their night. Their day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would just make his own food, except...except it doesn’t really work like that. Everything expires so quickly, and he feels hungry so rarely, that it just feels like a waste. He composts what he can. But usually, the fridge just sits empty, and that’s — that’s fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except on occasion, when it’s not fine, and there’s a deep pang in his stomach that leaves him feeling even more hollow and exhausted than usual. It’s distracting and unpleasant, and so is the eating, but if he doesn’t do one, then the other gets worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he’s here. He’s here and it’s warm, and he’s wearing a jacket, and he can’t figure out what to do with it. If he leaves it on, he’ll get too warm, maybe feel ill, he’s never tolerated heat well, and there are still enough bodies and lights in here to generate too much of it, but if he takes it off, it will be a whole affair to put it back on and it will take that much longer to be out the door again as soon as he’s done —</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is why he just...orders in. Pays extra for them to leave it at the door without interacting with him. And they do it, because the few who have forced him to open the door...it just hadn’t been a pleasant interaction for anyone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t hurt them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They just...knew. People always seem to — </span>
  <em>
    <span>know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands twist together. Anxious. He’s been to this particular bar before, and he thought coming back would be fine. Would be easier. Because it was familiar, and he likes the familiar. Familiar is safe. But bars aren’t like forests. The woods have the same trees no matter when he goes, more or less. But the faces here change, night to night, even hour to hour, and he can’t...there are too many, a blur of uncertainties, and if he could carve out his own stomach so that he never had to experience this again, he would do so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he can’t. So he sits, and he waits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something with a twang plays in the background. He doesn’t know the instrument, and doesn’t care. There’s a couple in the corner, clinging to each other and drunkenly swaying. They don’t follow the tune at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes find the wood grain of the table. He follows it, like an ant tracing a scent, past sand granules, a winding path to something soft to sink his fingers —</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A paper menu slides in front of his face, and he startles, practically jumping out of his seat at the intrusion into his thoughts, his space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman is short and stout, with a head of curly red hair. She’s chewing gum, and she works it to one side of her mouth, a half-apron at her waist. She’s got a smattering of freckles across her face in no discernible pattern. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles, and she looks tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I startle you? Sorry, sug. What’s it going to be? Kitchen’s closing up in fifteen for cleaning before morning, so if you’re wanting something to eat—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It comes out too abrupt, an interruption, and he winces at the sound of his own voice. His shoulders hunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear the dull thud of his own heart, sluggish, but faster than usual, as he stares uncomprehendingly down at the menu. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eat. He was here to eat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I w-want...uh…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anything. Anything to get her away from him. She’s staring at him, now, really looking at him, and it’s best that she doesn’t. No one ever liked what they saw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Including him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lawrence points blindly at the menu. He doesn’t know what he’s ordered, what it consists of, or if he’ll even like it, but those are secondary concerns. He can choke it down. Whatever it is, he can swallow it, and the ache will go away, and he won’t have to do this again for a while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it. Bring it right out to you. Anything to drink with that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Water.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It comes out automatically. He doesn’t want the alcohol here. It goes down too harsh, burns down his throat in a way that feels like liquid fire, and it feels all wrong. Leaves him feeling heady and sick, and not in the way his teas sometimes could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suit yourself. If you want anything on tap, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>tap</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bar, and we’ll get you squared away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She seems tickled by her own joke, but her giggles die when Lawrence doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even realize until she’s taken his menu and swayed away that she had been making a joke at all. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Strade </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> bars. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The low, warm lighting. Background music. Laughter. The never ending stream of new faces. Never a big deal if one or two of them never showed back up — it was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bar. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There were regulars, and then there was everyone else. No one cared about the everyone else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one except for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s the beer, too. That helps. A good way to kill time while waiting. Watching. A good way to start a conversation. Break the ice, so they can get to breaking other things. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Focus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s too easy to get excited, thinking about things like that. Thinking about bruised knees on cold concrete. Bruises in the shape of his hands. Bloody nose, mouth, arms, legs, open chest cavity—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been too long since he indulged. He tongues at the scar on his lip, brings the heavy glass he’s been nursing to his mouth. Takes a gulp, lets it go down smooth. Cheap swill, not because he can’t afford better, but because it doesn’t matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beer isn’t what he’s here for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never knows who he’s looking for until he spots them, and then, then he normally knows on </span>
  <em>
    <span>sight.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is what makes this situation so...strange. Why he’s — hesitating. He doesn’t hesitate. Not ever. Hesitation gets you caught. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d seen this one before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not often. He’s no regular. But he drifts in, on the odd occasion. Always alone. Always looking </span>
  <em>
    <span>miserable</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be here. Flinches away from the waitress, always sits as far from others as he can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Perfect. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well...no. Not quite. If he was perfect, Strade would have grabbed him the first time he laid eyes on him. The man’s a little taller than Strade likes. Could prove harder to manhandle. He looks thin, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give Strade a surprise. And in the occasions he’s seen him in here, Strade had only seen him with a glass of booze </span>
  <em>
    <span>once,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he’d taken one sip of it and nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>gagged. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s a weird one. A challenge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade doesn’t like challenges. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> challenges. Feisty, sure. Let them bite, scratch, howl, so long as he knows he can win in the end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not for sure, that he can win this one. He thinks he can, but overestimating his own abilities sounds like a quick way to wind up with his own knife in his gut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So the strange man in the corner is a no-go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Except. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He just draws the eye, doesn’t he? Strade’s eye, anyway. Hunched over in the corner, wringing his hands. Refusing to make eye contact when the waitress sways over with a glass of water and a cheap cut of meat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches for the water first, spins it in his hands slowly, condensation wetting his fingers and palms. Strade licks his lips again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hungry. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that man’s off the menu, but he looks so much like </span>
  <em>
    <span>prey</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Strade is thinking…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the man is turning his attention to the meat on his plate, and from this angle, Strade can’t see his face, but he can see the way he hesitates to do anything with the food. The way he reaches for a fork, and pushes the meat around his plate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toys</span>
  </em>
  <span> with it, like he can’t figure out how to actually eat it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade could show him. He could sink his own teeth into it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Into him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calm down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he does this, he needs to go into it level-headed. He’s too excited already, a familiar anticipation boiling in his blood, making his palms sweat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A stop by the bathroom, then. It’ll give him a better look at the man’s face. Give him a better idea of what he’ll look like in the harsh lights of his basement. Battered. Bruised. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beautiful. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade can’t wait, not another second, but he has to. He’s just about tenting his pants, and he hasn’t even approached him yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bathroom. Take the edge off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he’ll be able to think straight. Do this right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade loves bars, but right now, this one is </span>
  <em>
    <span>stifling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too crowded. Any amount of people aside from himself and the hunched over man in the corner is too crowded, as far as he’s concerned right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He downs the last of the beer he’s been nursing, and makes his way to the bathroom, stealing a look at the man on his way by. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s...meat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lawrence isn’t a vegetarian. That’s not the problem. It’s just that meat is </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It weighs him down with a sickening solidity. Forces him to feel it as his sluggish digestive system tries to remember its function. It inevitably </span>
  <em>
    <span>ferments</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside, and he feels ill until it passes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But getting anything else would require more talking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he picks up a fork. Pushes it aimlessly around the plate, eyes following the reddish brown liquid that pools in its path. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tines of the fork sink in, but not without effort. Chewy, poorly treated. Tough. More chewing. More time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he just won’t eat it. It’s fine. He can get...something else. Put it off a little longer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except his stomach clenches in on itself at the thought. Makes an unpleasant gurgling sound, and Lawrence winces at the dull ache of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs the knife, starts sawing through the meat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone passes by. He glances up sluggishly, only to see the bathroom door closing. It’s no business of his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lawrence takes the first piece of meat, and shoves it into his mouth. It’s a disgustingly visceral experience, blunt teeth digging into muscle tissue. Parting it, chewing it into mush, swallowing hard before he should, and for a moment, it feels like he’ll choke on it. He forces it down with a desperate gulp of water, winces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t do this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two more bites. Two more, and that will be enough to get him through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second bite is smaller, goes down easier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third bite, he chews only twice before he swallows. He chases it with water, squirms at the way it sits in him, too </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Three bites is enough. Three bites is too much. He feels ill. It’s too hot in here. Too crowded. He needs to leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He digs into his pocket, leaves a crumpled twenty on the table as he stumbles to his feet. If he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to be sick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hits the front door just as the bathroom door opens again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Under that hood, the man looks sallow, thin-faced. Not sleeping enough, with a five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. And his eyes...blue. Strade isn’t a man to waste time with comparison, with simile or metaphor. His eyes aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>blue like the sky just before a storm</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>the blue of a bundle of forget-me-nots</span>
  </em>
  <span> or...whatever. His eyes are just blue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very</span>
  </em>
  <span> blue. And Strade thinks they’d be way more interesting if they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>blue under a sharp basement lighting </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>blue filled with tears.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can picture it. Picture </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not having a head for metaphors doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an imagination; he does, and the only worse place to wind up than in his fantasies was in his basement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a question of what he would do to him -- it’s a question of how much he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> do to him before his body gave out. Before his toy broke and the game stopped being fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plenty. He could do plenty to him before then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Right now, he could undo his pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s straining against the front of them, far more than just half-hard at this point. Getting hard isn’t...well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Strade’s an excitable man. He’s also a shameless one, and he unzips his pants, skips the belt as a waste of time. He wants to get on with things. Wants to get out there, corner the man, talk to him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch </span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he </span>
  <em>
    <span>touches</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a rough grip around himself as he stands in a stall, one hand pressed to tile as he lets his eyes half-lid, lets his mind wander. A tight grip around himself, because they’re always </span>
  <em>
    <span>so tight</span>
  </em>
  <span> at first. Bodies protesting the intrusion, no matter where he decided to push in. They never seemed to appreciate his flexibility on the matter. Some of them seemed to hold parts of themselves as sacred. Sometimes, he respects that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any hole was a hole, after all, even if he had to make a new one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s not just anyone on his mind tonight, not some faceless nobody. He’s got a target, and that means his mind is racing with thoughts of lank blond hair twisted between his fingers, shoving his face against hard concrete, scraping up his face with it. What would his spine look like? Could Strade dig his fingers into his ribs? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>going</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s panting now, harsh breaths as his palm drags over himself, rapid motions, graceless. Nothing fancy. That was for later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would he be like? Shy, inexperienced? Terrified? Or is he secretly some </span>
  <em>
    <span>slut</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whoring himself out around town, some sort of addict, spreading his legs for anyone who can give him what he wants? Neither thought is particularly repulsive, but something about the latter is </span>
  <em>
    <span>enticing</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>because</span>
  </em>
  <span> the man looks more likely to be the former.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade loves a good </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprise</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s the anticipation of it, knowing he’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> to knowing --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so close</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low growl hums in his throat, and he sets a punishing pace with his hand, twisting his wrist as he tightens his fingers around his cock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would he scream? Beg? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cry?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to see him cry. He wants to see him scrabble at the floor, trying to get away, wants to see him sobbing against his arms, wants to haul him back towards him. Drag him upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Set up the camera, maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the stream. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s a rare thing, but he’s got this feeling…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got this </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and right now that feeling is </span>
  <em>
    <span>heat</span>
  </em>
  <span> coiling in his gut, at the base of his spine, electric, and he’s jerking against his own fingers, spilling over them, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it’s a shame it’s not one he’d made all over that man’s body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade breathes through the aftermath, quick, heavy pants, cleaning himself up with some tissue and flushing it all with a lift of his boot down on the handle while he tucks himself back into his pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the sink, washing his hands, his flushed face, staring himself down in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And soon, it looks more like he’s just a few drinks too many in, rather than someone who had just jerked it to the thought of mauling someone open like an animal. He’s still thinking about that, in fact, but sometimes a refractory period could be a blessing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fixes a lazy, friendly smile on his face. It’s not even a lie -- that’s the best part. He doesn’t have to lie. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to make a new acquaintance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, when the bathroom door swings open and his eyes flicker over to where his new </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span> ought to be sitting, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And a quick scan of the bar shows no sign of him elsewhere, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>come into the bathroom, or Strade would have --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes catch on the front door, still in the process of a slow close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade has </span>
  <em>
    <span>plans</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t get to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span> now, after he’s gotten him all riled up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade throws cash on the table he’d been sitting at on his way out. He doesn’t know how much. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s not wasting a second to count fucking paper when his latest pet project is </span>
  <em>
    <span>slipping away</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dark outside of the bar, and the drunken, pleasant smile has disappeared off of his face. He wouldn’t need it, out here. This has turned into an altogether different game.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Versteckspiel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade’s eyes flicker up at a sound. Crunching leaves; not close enough for him to make out what exactly is making the noise, but this late?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got a hunch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands shove into his pockets, and he sets off in the direction of the rustling.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something is...wrong.</p><p>Lawrence can’t place it, at first. Can’t quite figure out where the <em> wrongness </em> is, what it stems from. It’s not him, this time, which is odd enough by itself, but he is alone, and when he is alone, his own wrongness causes no disruption. </p><p>But there <em> is </em> a disruption, and it takes a full block of walking for him to figure out what it is. </p><p>Everything is...quiet. Lawrence likes the quiet, but this is...too much. Too absolute. </p><p>He hears it, sometimes, when predators creep through the underbrush, looking for something to sink their teeth into. The world goes hushed, goes into hiding. </p><p>The wrongness, then, is that this is the quiet of being <em> hunted. </em></p><p>It prickles up along his spine, raises the hair at the nape of his neck. His sluggish heart attempts a faster staccato in his chest, and his palms are suddenly sweat-slick, because this — this doesn’t make sense. He can’t be hunted, because he’s…</p><p>Well. Usually, he’s the one who causes the quiet, but only with other people. Because he’s — he’s <em> dangerous. </em> And he doesn’t mean to be, not really, but things...happen, and he can’t stop them from happening, sometimes they’re over before he even comes back to his senses, the memories of warmth fading into cold hazy in his head. </p><p>But more than that, he can’t be hunted because he is <em>unsavory</em>. He’s not a meal — nothing a predator would want. Something long dead, or that should have been long dead, something that carries a little death with him wherever he goes. </p><p>Another scavenger, like him…?</p><p>No. </p><p>No, there <em> is </em> no one like him, and the sooner he learns that, the less painful it will be for everyone. Every time he thinks he’s found someone who <em> understands </em> , he realizes that they’re <em> lying. </em></p><p>There is no one like him. So whoever, whatever has caught his scent should just...just leave him alone. For their own sake. </p><p>Lawrence breaks from the path, from the sidewalk, out of the warm pool of street lamp lighting. Leaves crunch underfoot, louder than the sidewalk, but not for long. He knows how to be quieter than anyone else. Knows how to walk softly in the woods. </p><p>The treeline welcomes him, swallows him, and he slips into the shadows between trees. He is always <em> between </em> , never quite here, and never <em> there. </em> </p><p>In the middle of the city, there are no rivers, but standing with one hand resting on the rough bark of a tree, surrounded by the decay of an autumn night, watching a shadow pass by where he had been standing moments ago, Lawrence swears he can hear the steady rush of water somewhere just behind him. </p><p>When he turns to look, he is disappointed, as he always is. </p><p>But when he turns back, he is startled to find the presence that had passed his hiding spot on the street above had doubled back, and is now standing, staring out at the woods. </p><p>
  <em> At him.  </em>
</p><p>No. No, not at him. He can’t see him, can’t possibly. </p><p>But there are eyes visible in a mostly shadowed face, and they look golden in the lamplight, and for just a moment, Lawrence swears they can see him, and he feels pinned into place, a moth in a box, fluttering its last. </p><p>And then the eyes shift — not focused on him, just on the line of trees, looking out at them in a calculating way. He hadn’t seen him. Can’t have. But Lawrence shrinks back all the same, holds his breath until he’s dizzy with it. </p><p>His foot lands wrongly on a root, and the fall is inevitable. </p><p>He hits the ground, hard, and immediately sits up, panting, blue eyes wide in the darkness. The figure is no longer in the lamplight — but Lawrence hears him nonetheless, boots tamping down dry grasses. </p><p>Lawrence doesn’t wait to find out what he wants. He scrambles up, a flurry of leaves, and flees deeper into the sanctuary of the woods.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Strade doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>chase</span>
  </em>
  <span> his prey. At least, not anymore, not these days. It’s fun — he loves it, the way it gets the heart pounding, and that moment when he finally gets them pinned beneath him, struggling and gasping and scrabbling and fighting — but…it causes problems. Chasing them outside of a confined space, a hunting ground he knows, leads to the risk of them getting away. Plus, it leaves a trail of evidence to clean up, to get rid of, just in case, and then that puts him longer in areas of interest, and...it’s just not </span>
  <em>
    <span>worth</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can always let them loose in his home. Let them run. Lock the drawers and cabinets and see which they run to first — the kitchen for a knife, or the front door, for freedom? Neither would save them, but he was ever curious nonetheless. And he likes the patter of their feet in a space they can’t get away from him in, a fruitless waste of energy on their part, and a bit of fun for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a little boring, isn’t it? Always shooting fish in a barrel. Always an expected outcome. And his house was big, by living standards for a single man, but small when it came to hunting runners through it. The games never lasted longer than ten or fifteen minutes, unless they hid, and then maybe twenty, to give him time to check closets and cabinet spaces. He could sometimes drag it out to thirty, but then it got old, all the slow creeping through his own house. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This...this is so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he’s forgotten how much better it can be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s standing on the sidewalk where the man was standing not long before, and there’s lamplight clinging to everything and ruining his night vision, and his eyes are on the tree line. It’s the only place the man could have gone, but that implied he either just liked to go on lovely witching hour strolls through the woods, or he knew he was being followed and was paranoid about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it’s the former, it’s an interesting hobby he’s got there. One Strade occasionally finds himself partaking of himself, though normally with a purpose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it’s the latter, then this would be a bit harder. He works best when they don’t know what he is, what he wants. That’s why he hunts in bars. Finds the people most in need and want of company. Plies them with warm words and cold drinks and smiles and laughs aplenty. They never see his teeth until it’s too late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hirschen</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems to be a skittish thing, already wary, already slipping off the beaten path to throw off the scent. Already worries that the person tracing his steps might not have good intentions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s right, and somehow, it’s all the more enticing knowing that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade stares out into the trees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a risk, and he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> risks, but when he hears the sound of the man falling in the dark, a clumsy miscalculation, some deeper instinct overtakes him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck the sidewalk. Fuck caution. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pretty deer waiting for him in the woods, and he’s going to have it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His boots are loud on the leaves, crushing them to dust, every sound an abrasive break of the previous quiet, but the game is on, now. He can hear the man, scrabbling to his feet, can hear him </span>
  <em>
    <span>running</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Strade’s heart is racing with barely contained excitement. When he catches him — because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s not an </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore — </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> he catches him, he’s going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tear him to pieces.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Branches and twigs and thorns snatch at his clothes, trying to impede his progress, but he persists, snarling as he feels a branch whip across his face, stinging, drawing small beads of blood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It ought to give him pause. Ought to make him stop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If anything, it only makes him all the hungrier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s going to tear this man’s pretty throat out with his teeth. He’s going to hold him down, make him cry. Make him beg. Make him ask for death, and not give it to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe give it to him. Eventually. After Strade has wrung everything out of him that he has to give. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only — his footsteps are sounding more faint. The mad scrabble is becoming harder to follow over the sound of his own frenzied chase through the trees. And it’s not because the man is getting further away, it’s because…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because there are less leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s nearing the edge of the tree line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d gotten away from him at the bar, and now, now as Strade breaks through a dense section of underbrush and skids his way down a hill, he sees the way the trees start to thin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he watches as the shape of the man he’s been chasing, long and lanky, slips out of them and into an open expanse of field, towards the glowing lights of some factory, where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> work, because he’s ushered in past the fencing by a bored looking security guard. Out of his reach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strade slams the side of his hand against a tree trunk, lets the rough bark dig in, and lets out a frustrated sound that carries in the cool night air. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is literally just a fic i've been writing whenever my insomnia acts up and won't let me sleep. you can yell at me for it over at softhorrorgay @ tumblr.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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